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Through the rain and up the hill, I see Griggs smile, squinting down the sight of the rifle. I spread my arms wide, water dripping from my fingertips. “Come on, then!” I scream up at him. “Come on, you fucking bastard! Do it! What the fuck are you waiting for? Do it!”
He pulls the trigger.
Nothing happens.
Again. Nothing.
He’s empty. He pulls the rifle back with a snarl of anger and starts digging through his pocket to reload.
I run.
The small crater where Cal landed is completely filled with water. I look down as I pass it. Clearly visible through the water are the blue flowers that stretch out into the shapes of wings. They flash an even more brilliant Prussian blue, lighting up the water until I’m sure it will blind me, the outline of wings almost more than I can take. It’s just a trick of my exhausted mind, I know, but for a moment I think the wings will rise from the water and Cal will be there, taking my hand in his and making this whole day disappear like it never happened. I’ll be swallowed by the blue light and I’ll never be scared or sad again.
But, of course, that does not happen.
I reach the opposite side of the clearing as Griggs starts to slide down the hill. He’s reloaded the rifle and attempts to aim it at me as I scramble up the wet grass, but he slips and lands on his back, sliding down the rest of the way.
I dig in my feet, kicking the ground with each step I take, trying to create divots so I don’t slip and fall back into the clearing. I’m halfway up the hill when the rifle fires again and the bullet hits the ground below my feet. I glance over my shoulder. Griggs is slowly walking across the clearing, taking aim again. I’ve gritted my teeth against the inevitable shot in the back when the crater again flashes blue. Griggs stutters in his steps, looking down toward the crater. There’s another pulse, so dazzling I have to close my eyes against it.
Move!
I start climbing again, ignoring the flashes of bright light behind me, not focusing on the fact that the flowers are glowing in a crater where an angel fell. I dig my hands into the soil above me and pull myself higher up the steep hill. My legs burn as I push. My arms hurt as I pull. Griggs howls behind me as the blue lights begin to fade. I’m almost at the top. I crouch, pressing my stomach against the ground. I push as hard as I can and launch myself up and reach the crest of the hill, clutching the trunk of a tree.
The lights behind me fade out completely.
Griggs is staring dumbfounded at the crater below, rubbing his eyes. Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, and he snaps his head up toward me. Rage roils over his face again, and he raises the rifle more quickly than I think possible. He gets one shot off, and I duck against the tree, the bullet striking the trunk where my head had been just a second before.
He starts after me again.
I dash down the other side of the hill, through the trees. Ahead, the noise of the river is getting louder, until it’s an almost unbearable roar. But I don’t turn back. I can’t. There is no plan beyond reaching the river where Big Eddie died. It’ll be enough. It has to be.
As I clear the tree line, I skitter to a stop.
Mile marker seventy-seven lies before me, and the area has changed.
The river is fury incarnate, swollen and snapping, moving swiftly as it tears its way through the valley. It has crested its banks, waves splashing up and over the ground that surrounds the river. Debris floats by: shrubs, branches, a young maple tree, ripped from its roots. The boulder my father’s truck struck is partially underwater on the opposite shore, split in two from the night Cal fell. I’ve never seen the river fill so quickly. Maybe the dam upstream has broken.
> A shout from behind me.
I take a step toward the river and then hesitate. There’s no way I can make it across. The river’s moving too fast, the current is too strong, the water too deep. I can’t run along the edges of the river because it has already risen. The only way out is back the way I came, but Griggs is thundering through the woods behind me.
I take another step toward the river and then another. And another. Water begins to rush around my ankles, and I feel the pull of it. I take another step, and the water is so cold my injured ankle goes almost completely numb, blanketing the pain that had started to come back. I stare down at the brown water, unable to see my reflection. The water is up to my calves when I reach the edge of the bank. Another step and the water will be up to my chest and I’ll be swept away. Maybe it’s better that way, I think. Maybe it’s better to float in the river than die at the hands of my father’s killer.
This feels like the dream, though I don’t think it is. My father’s truck is not in the river. There’s no shadowy figure standing on the roadway above, though now I know who it was. There are no feathers. There are no crosses. There is only the sky above, the rain falling down. The river rushing in front of me, hell rushing toward my back.
I turn and face what’s coming.
Once, when I was six, my father made me angry. I don’t remember what I’d
done, or what he’d said in response, but I made the decision to run away from home. I waited until the house was quiet that night. I loaded up my backpack with a pair of jeans. Three pairs of socks. Underwear. Two shirts, and a sweatshirt. I also packed a copy of The Boxcar Children, sure I could find an abandoned train car to live in and that the book would show me how. I went quietly down the stairs, jumping over the second-to-last one because it always squeaked.
I went to the kitchen and made three cheese and mustard sandwiches. I put them in a paper lunch sack, along with barbeque-flavored Bugles and strawberry Fig Newtons, each in their own baggies. I grabbed two Capri Suns out of the fridge and put them in my bag. I figured this bounty would last me at least three or four weeks, until I could figure out how to hunt for food. I contemplated taking a rifle, but they were locked up in the gun case in the garage, and I didn’t know where the keys were, so I packed my sling shot instead. And then, after further consideration, I also grabbed my boomerang that I hadn’t quite figured out how to make return just yet. I’d have time to learn.
I left a note ( I’m mad at you, so good-bye FOREVER!!! Don’t look for me!!! Love, Benji) before I left—it felt like the right thing to do. I opened the door into the night and started my journey into the wild unknown.
I’d barely made it to the end of the long driveway before I was sure something was following me. I’d forgotten a flashlight (much to my embarrassment and there was no way I was going back to get one) so I couldn’t quite see if it was an animal or not. I wasn’t scared of the dark, but this dark seemed darker than the normal dark. Maybe it’s a bear, I thought. Or maybe an otter. That would be kind of neat to see. I pulled my boomerang from my backpack just in case it was a bear and started walking down the roadway again.
The footsteps continued behind me. I whirled around. “Who’s there?” I cried, my voice small. “I’ve got my boomerang, so don’t you mess with me!”
